When I was sixteen, I would scribble verse

On what we called math paper, in blue pen.

I'd work the lines over and over again

Till they were dark, obscure, opaque, perverse.

When I was twenty-one, simplicity

Was my bold slogan and my living creed.

A stoic terseness. No roses that bleed

Or hearts that bloom. Just straight veracity.

When I was thirty, I regret to say

My rhymes gave in to the pious urge to preach.

A stern-faced God, all answers within reach:

This was my Muse for many a dismal day.

Now I am forty-five, with weakening eyes.

My mind's grown lazy and my belly ample.

Content with first drafts, I'm a bad example

To younger poets who'd ignite the skies.